


It's Cold Outside

by ForTheLoveOf1776



Series: Ace's Oneshot Collection [4]
Category: Newsies (1992), Newsies - All Media Types, Newsies!: the Musical - Fierstein/Menken
Genre: (?), Anxious Racetrack Higgins, Canon-Era, Christmas Fluff, Christmas fic, Cute, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, Fluff without Plot, Friends to Lovers, Gay, Happy Ending, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Internalized Homophobia, It gets really fluffy, M/M, Mutual Pining, Past Abuse, Past Character Death, Period-Typical Homophobia, Pining, Protective Spot Conlon, Racetrack Higgins Needs a Hug, Slow Burn, Spot Conlon/Racetrack Higgins-centric, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, get-together, it's honestly not as bad as the tags say, very gay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-24
Updated: 2020-12-24
Packaged: 2021-03-11 00:55:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,482
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28086534
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ForTheLoveOf1776/pseuds/ForTheLoveOf1776
Summary: Spot and Race are friends, but they're about to become more than that.Merry Christmas 2020
Relationships: Spot Conlon/Racetrack Higgins
Series: Ace's Oneshot Collection [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2057496
Comments: 6
Kudos: 24





	It's Cold Outside

**Author's Note:**

> Vaguely inspired by [Shelter](https://archiveofourown.org/works/614283)
> 
> This is a Sprace canon-era get-together! Set on Christmas Eve/Day, posted on Christmas Eve/Day (depending on where y'all live), but not written on Christmas Eve/Day. Hope y'all enjoy!
> 
> TW for mentions of death and homophobia.

Race had always hated Christmas.

It was something to do with him always being alone, never having family to celebrate with, and a bad history of events always occurring on Christmas Day. This year seemed no different. He trudged dejectedly down the streets of Brooklyn, heading in the general direction of the bridge to Manhattan. Christmas Eve, New York, 1898. Cold, snowing, windy, and just a generally bad day. Although the weather wasn't poor enough for Racetrack to be invisible to the public, the wind was too loud for any passerby to hear his callings of the headline.

This selling spot was usually packed with people going about their business, but today was a stark contrast of such. The howling winds and battering sleet was enough to strike a caution among the general masses, so little appeared from Racetrack's usual crowd.

Selling a record low of eighteen papers out of his fifty gave Race enough anxiety to stick around in Brooklyn a little later than usual. That was his second mistake (the first being his departure from Manhattan that morning), because by the time he reached the Brooklyn Bridge it was already nearing curfew at the Duane Street Lodging House. He'd never make it back to Manhattan in time, especially in this weather. _I knew I should'a got a pass._ He kicked at the offending snow and looked across the Bridge. The world was so white he couldn't even make out the other side, let alone see the comforting sight of his home borough.

Under the heavy onslaught of the wind and weather, Race shivered in his threadbare clothing. The softly compacted snow had since deteriorated into pelting sleet, which battered him relentlessly. With another wistful glance in the general direction of home, he turned, stumbling away over snow banks, heading for the Brooklyn Lodging House. He may sometimes act like an idiot, but Race wasn't stupid. He had a good survival sense, as one does after looking after yourself for most of your life. The only way he'd make it through this weather was to be indoors. So, relying on pure muscle memory to get him there, Racetrack set off through the storm.

His third mistake.

He had no idea where he was. Racetrack, although a frequent-enough visitor to Brooklyn, didn't know the streets well enough— not like he knew Manhattan. The weather was bad enough now that he couldn't see 5 feet in front of him. As he stumbled over the millionth unidentified object on his path, an impending sense of doom overcast him. See, Race didn't quite know where he was going, and he was starting to succumb to the harsh elements that, he supposed, were going to be the root of his untimely demise.

As Race struggled around the streets, backtracking and circling around, utterly lost, his mind began to wander. The problems from today were a not-so-friendly reminder of the Christmas seasons he’d faced already. Memories resurfaced in his conscious oblivion, the low vision a trigger to elicit these intrusions upon his reverie.

* * *

_The highlights:_

_A two-year-old’s Christmas ‘present’._

_“Mama? Mama! Please, wake up, Mama! … please?”_

_A seven-year-old’s begging._

_“No, Papa, don’t go! It’s Christmas tomorrow, you’ve got to stay for Christmas!”_

_A thirteen-year-old’s cries._

_“Stop! Leave me alone, please… DON’T TOUCH ME!”_

_A death, a runaway, a beating, and everything in-between. Merry fucking Christmas._

* * *

"Racer? Whatcha still doin' in Brooklyn?" A voice. A familiar voice, enough to jolt him out of his stupor. Race, in his daze, had walked straight into none other than the King of Brooklyn himself.

"Spot, thank the gods! I thoughts I was done for!" 

The newsie in question looked up at him, bemused. "Ya didn't answer my question." 

Race hung his head, slightly embarrassed. "I, uh, I didn't sell enough papes, so I stayed longer here. But, uh, the storm caught me. Couldn't make it 'cross the bridge," Spot met his eyes, taking in Race's slightly blue-tinged face and watched his violent shaking. He made a decision, and grabbed Race by the arm.

Racetrack jumped a little at the sudden contact, pulling away. "Where'ya taking me?"

"Lodging House," Spot said, turning to frown at his reaction. "You good, Racer?"

"Yeah, yeah, just surprised me, is all."

They set off again. Race thought back to when he'd joined the Manhattan newsies, fourteen years old, and black, blue, and bloody. He'd jumped at any touch, expected or not. But it'd been two years since, and Racetrack was startled at his own flightiness. He'd thought he was over that.

It wasn't like Spot was a stranger to him. Race had a biweekly tradition of playing poker with the Brooklyn boys, which usually ended up as a Spot versus Race showdown. And even before that, he'd gotten Spot's personal permission to sell in Brooklyn. Hell, they'd even sold _together_ a couple of times, for the sake of newsie solidarity.

That there 'newsie solidarity' was the very thing keeping him alive at the moment. Turns out, 61 Poplar Street was closer to the Brooklyn Bridge than Race had originally anticipated. Damn, this weather was really screwing him over.

(He was too proud to admit he barely knew where Brooklyn's Lodging House was in the first place, but extenuating circumstances are always useful.)

"Home sweet home." Spot led Racetrack to the alley next to the House, where there was a door. "After you." The door opened onto a landing with adjoined stairs, which Spot promptly headed down, Race right behind him. He scanned the building. It appeared smaller than the one in Manhattan, and the stairs opened into a registration office and the ground floor (much unlike Duane Street, where the registration was on floor three). Sat at the office desk was an older woman, leafing through a book.

"Hey, Mrs Kirby," Spot walked towards her, gesturing for Race to follow. She looked up from her book and smiled at them both.

"Hello, Sean. Have you brought a friend along for Christmas?" out of the corner of his eye, Race saw Spot scowl at the mention of his real name.

"Yeah, this is Racer. He's a 'Hattan newsie, but he sells in Brooklyn sometimes."

"I gots caught in the storm," Race added, smiling sheepishly.

Mrs Kirby laughed. "Welcome to Poplar Street. I'm the matron here. It's lucky Sean found you!"

"Ma'am, how many times do I tell ya to call me Spot?" she ignored him, instead going over some rules of the Lodging House with Race, who then registered and paid her for his stay.

Spot thanked Mrs Kirby and led Race away. "A'right, the other boys woulda finished meals by now, but there'll be sometin' left over. It's down 'ere." Another set of stairs, this time heading down into a basement. Race followed humbly along, still a bit cold and his head still all jumbled up. He couldn't really think straight, let alone reply to Spot.

Grabbing food from the kitchen, they sat together in silence.

"What'sa matter, Racer? Ya barely said a word since I gotchu 'ere. Not often I talks more than you." Race lifted his head, briefly meeting the eyes of Brooklyn's newsboy leader before averting his gaze. When he didn't reply, Spot frowned, concerned. "Racer?" he reached his hand across the table and pressed it to his forehead. "You's cold."

"Yeah, I couldn't tell," Race rolled his eyes, jerking his head back. "I was outside all day, y'know."

Spot's expression darkened even more. "Why the hell'd ya do that? I made 'alf o' my boys stay inside 'cause o' the cold!"

Racetrack shrugged. "Papes are for selling."

Spot opened his mouth to reply, but seemed to think better of it. He looked away and sighed. "A'right, Racer. Let's getcha upstairs, huh? I reckon all them bunks'll be full soon."

All "them bunks" were, in fact, full. Race watched as Spot made a full circuit of the room, looking for a space, stopping to talk to a few boys.

"Sorry, Racer, nothing 'ere."

"I can just share—"

"You don't know 'em though. Wouldn't be fair," Spot cut him off, already heading up the stairs to the third floor.

"This is where my crib is. I was gonna brings you up 'ere anyways.” His words barely registered with Racetrack, who was tiring by the minute. His head was starting to spin, and the whole wave of disorientation flooded him. Still, he made it up the stairs like nothing was wrong. A good actor 'till the day he'd pass.

A second room of bunks greeted him, more than the first. He saw a few empty spaces, but before he could crash on one his arm became property of Spot again. His fingers gripped tightly around Race's forearm, and Race noticed a couple of strange looks sent in their direction from other newsies. He recognized some of them from poker matches, but he didn't get a chance to greet them as him and Spot reached another door.

"These are the private rooms," he said, pushing the door and then Race through.

"But... I didn't pay for the private rooms?"

"Nah, but I did." Spot smirked at him. "There's usually space in here—"

"There ain't space in 'ere!" Brooklyn's second-in-command, Hotshot, stepped out of the shadows, startling an already jittery Racetrack immensely. Spot chuckled at him, slinging an arm around his shoulder.

"Don' worry, Racer, we's all friends 'ere." He frowned, rubbing his hand on Race's upper arm. "Hey, you's still cold."

"Why's he cold, boss?" Hot Shot asked.

Spot pulled Race fractionally closer, enough so that Hot Shot and any other newsie in the private room couldn't see, but Race felt it. "This 'ere 'Hattan dumbass—" Racetrack scoffed at the insult "—decided to come 'ere rather than staying in Manhattan to sell today. Y'know, in the cold," Spot rolled his eyes, and Hotshot smiled.

"Anyways, why ain't there space in here? I'd thought Graves was still in Queens."

Hot Shot leaned against his bunk and shook his head, barely visible in the low light. "Nope, he came back while you's was out. He's right here," the tall newsie banged on the side of the metal frame, "fast asleep."

"Or I was, before you wakes me up!" Graves said from the bed, evading Race's sight as a mere shadow.

Racetrack leaned a little into Spot's side. Despite the height difference, Spot held him up. "So who else's in 'ere?"

"Myron, Bart, and York," Race nodded, recognizing the names. These boys were the head of Brooklyn, well-known all over New York as "Spot Conlon's gang". Their very names were enough to strike fear in the heart of any newsboy. 

Apart from Race, of course, who'd played poker with them enough times that he'd call some of these boys his closest friends.

He was about to strike up a conversation, but Mrs Kirby poked her head through the door, light flooding through the gap from the other dormitory. "Lights out, boys. It's nearly 10:00," there was a unified groan, and a "it's Christmas tomorrow, Miss, can't we stay up" from either Bart or Myron, but Hot Shot swung himself back into his bunk, and Spot tugged Race down onto another bed.

"Looks like we'll hafta share," sharing bunks was nothing new to Racetrack, who often had to double up with other boys even in the spacious Manhattan Lodging House. Especially in the winter, they were pressed for space. Besides, it was warmer to share. Still, an unfamiliar feeling jolted through him as he settled down next to Spot. Race was no stranger to feelings, but this particular one he hadn't felt in a long time. This _particular_ one he'd have to suppress. Pressure it out of existence. But as Spot pulled the blankets over them and slung an arm around Racetrack's waist, moving himself closer, the beat in Race's chest burst out into a full-fledged song.

Because you know what they say about giving pressure to coal. It turns into diamonds.

* * *

Race couldn't sleep. Not only was he still in a state from his near clash with hypothermia, his brain could sense the unfamiliar surroundings, which to Race screamed "danger!". He shivered involuntarily, shifting closer to Spot.

"Racer? You okay?" came a whispered voice. Turns out he wasn't the only one still awake.

"Yeah, I— why do you call me 'Racer'?" the question was sudden, surprising both of them.

"I, uh, I dunno. Everyone calls you 'Race' or 'Racetrack; I thoughts of a different option."

Race flipped onto his side, facing Spot. He started to question it again but Spot interjected.

"You's _still_ cold, Racer. What's I gotta do to makes you warm?" he couldn't see the Brooklyn boy's face, but he knew Spot well enough to picture the concerned frown that would flit across his features with the comment.

"Uh, got any other blankets?" Race joked.

"Nope, we gives 'em all to the younger boys, 'specially round this time o' the year. So, any other idea?"

"You're warm."

Racetrack Higgins had an issue with impulsivity. His tendency to blurt things out without thinking them through had gotten him into trouble a number of times. See, the kid was whip-smart, with a quick mind. But sometimes his mouth was faster. And that was another problem.

(Or was it?)

The silence took up a few beats, and if it wasn't pitch-black, Race had a feeling he and Spot would be making intense eye-contact.

"Yeah. I guess I am," he finally broke the quiet.

Race nearly exhaled sharply to let out the breath he'd been holding. On occasion, he'd be left breathless and lost for words at his own brilliant stupidity. This time, though, it seemed he'd hit the jackpot.

Spot pulled him closer again, so that Race was practically lying on top of him, and wrapped both arms around him, just above Race's waist. It was a slow movement, slow enough so that Race wasn't startled at all by it. _He wasn't startled at all by it._ The realization hit Racetrack like a trolley. Spot had noticed. Spot had noticed his jumps and starts _and adjusted to help Racer._ The thought alone was enough to send a fluttery feeling all through Race's chest, adding to the Feeling he dared not to name. In the darkness, he smiled despite himself, and brought his own arms up to hold on to Spot's. He relaxed for the first time since entering the Brooklyn Lodging House. Spot seemed to sense the change.

"You's sure you's alright, Racer?" he asked, tipping his head forward to whisper in Race's ear.

"Yeah. I'm alright," he replied, still smiling.

"Not so cold now, 'uh?" came the teasing retort.

"Nah."

Race shifted upwards a bit and turned so that he and Spot's were right next to each other, and let an arm drift over Spot to bring him a little bit closer. Spot rubbed a hand on his side before settling down himself, and Race sighed contentedly. This was the best Christmas Eve he'd ever had. He drifted off to sleep, snuggled in a warm bed with arms around him, safe from the storm.

He didn't even spare a thought to Manhattan.

Manhattan, however, was sparing many a thought to him.

* * *

"Where the hell could he be?" Jack Kelly burst through the doors to the bunk rooms. The newsboys in the Duane Street Lodging House were missing an important member, and were worked up in a frenzie trying to find him.

"Did'ja check the theater?" Crutchie asked, poking his head out of the closet.

"Yeah! Medda said she ain't seen him today. Specs, did he get a pass?"

"Nope!" Specs called out from the floor, where he and Elmer were consoling a panicked Albert.

Jack ran his hands through his hair, pacing. "Okay, who saw 'im at circulation?"

"I did!" Finch piped up. "He got fifty papes this morning. I dunno where he went though," he finished with a frown.

"I think he was headed to the Bridge," Jojo said.

"Nah, that can't be right, Racetrack's smarter than that!" Romeo interjected. This sent the lot of them spiraling out of control, arguing about who saw him when and where he could've sold.

"He went to Brooklyn."

All heads turned to the redhead on the floor, who'd barely spoken a word since the news broke that Race was missing.

"Race went to Brooklyn," Albert continued, "because he's a dumbass with no self-preservation skills," no counter-arguments were made. It was a well-known fact that Racetrack Higgins was a dumbass.

"Well shit," Jack slumped down heavily onto a bunk. "There ain't no way we'll get him back 'ere before tomorrow."

" _If_ we get 'im back 'ere. For all we knows, 'em Brooklyn boys coulda beaten poor Racetrack to the dead!" Elmer exclaimed.

Specs punched his shoulder and hissed "Not. Helping!" punctuated with a pointed look at Albert. Elmer mumbled an apology, and Albert suddenly stood up. All eyes turned to him as he stared out the window into the white sky.

"Uh, 'M gonna go find him—" he was cut off by yells from all of them, and held his hands up to silence them. "Shut it! I know it's stupid cold, but Race's never had a good Christmas and he was really looking forward to tomorrow's dinner. Besides, he's probably freezing in an alley right now. Them Brooklyn boys woulda never let ‘im stay."

Silence, as the realization hit. Jack sighed dejectedly and stood up. "I hate to say it, but Al's right. There ain't no way Race coulda crossed the bridge, and we's may be friendly with 'em boys o'er in Brooklyn, but there ain't no way they'd let Race stay wit' 'em. But—" the Manhattan newsies began clamoring anxiously "—but! There ain't no way we can go get Race either. Not in this weather."

"Race mighta stayed with Brooklyn! He knows some of 'em," Crutchie raised his voice above the worried chatter. "There's no need to assume he's carrying the banner. I mean, I wouldn'ta blame 'im for it, but he's made some good friends through poker an' crap-shooting an' the like. Surely they's owing him a favor or two, and no newsboy's 'bout'ta give up a free bed," ever the optimist, Crutchie was. His words were enough to calm them down, and Jack shot him a thankful look over the crowd.

"Yeah, so let's just head to bed, eh fellas? We need sleep, and besides, it's Christmas tomorrow! Kloppman's serving up a big feast, and we need'ta be up early for that."

So it was with nervous glances and restlessness that the Manhattan newsboys went to sleep, hoping that Racetrack was somewhere safe.

* * *

He was. Race woke up early, around the time the morning circulation bell would usually be ringing. Of course, it was Christmas Day, so he didn't need to bother getting up at the usual time. No papers to sell today! He'd hawk the headline tomorrow. Today was a day off.

The room was still dark, the winter sun not yet risen. Spot shifted in his sleep, his head rolling into Race's neck, and he mumbled inaudible words into his shoulder. Race had moved in the night to lying flat on his back, but Spot was still pressed up against his side and his arms were still wrapped around Race. It was comfortable arrangement, and Racetrack was feeling safer than he'd felt in a long time. He lay there, soaking in the calm, trying not to think about having to leave this warm embrace, and going back into the cold.

For sure, Race loved Manhattan, and he'd never give up living there, but for the first time in his memory he also wanted to stay right where he was. In Brooklyn, with arms around him, warm and safe. _Why can't it be like this everyday?_ Ah, longing for something he couldn't have. How typical! Well, there were a lot of answers to his internal question, and a lot of questions also formed from it. But the simple explanation was this: he was falling for Spot, and he loved it. (He loved _him._ )

In the low-light of a Brooklyn Newsboy's Lodging House, Racetrack Higgins had just had one of the biggest realizations of his life. How did he react? In typical Racetrack fashion: without thinking.

Without thinking, Race flipped onto his side and shook Spot awake.

Without thinking, his sleep-addled voice said "Hey, don' worry, I jus' need t' tell ya sometin'."

Without thinking, he trailed a gentle hand down the side of his face. ("Wha'cha doin', Racer?")

Without thinking, without even speaking a word, he leaned forward, and kissed him.

Just softly, at first, so Spot could pull away if he wanted. He didn't. Spot _freaking Conlon_ was _kissing_ him, his lips parted around his, his hand snaking up the side of Race's body to his jaw, moving Race's head slightly to deepen the kiss. He took it as an invitation to tilt his head further, slipping his tongue inside Spot's mouth. It was good. It was so, so, good. Racetrack didn't want it to stop, but Spot broke the kiss. Race was about to complain, but Spot ducked down slightly and kiss his neck. A soft "oh" escaped Race's throat, and he felt Spot smile against his skin. Suddenly, a quick change in position had Race pinned against the bed, Spot on top of him, kissing Race's face. His cheek, his forehead, and yes, his mouth, and Racetrack would be damned if he didn't like it.

It didn't last as long as they'd liked. In the room next door, a loud thump was heard, surprising both of them. They jumped apart simultaneously, Race searching for Spot's hand under the covers. He found it, and gripped it tightly. Spot squeezed back, sneaking his other hand over Race's waist. He turned his head to look at Spot. There still wasn't quite enough light in the private bunk room for anyone to see by, but Race's face still split into a grin, and he saw Spot did the same. He had a beautiful smile. Race moved in to kiss him, but he moved backwards.

"We should, uh, probably not do much else," Spot whispered, and Race's smile slipped slightly.

"Oh. Okay."

"Not that I don't want to, o' course!" Spot backtracked, "But I dunno how happy the boys'll be 'bout us."

Race, in his little happy bubble, had forgotten about the rest of the world. People like him and Spot weren't meant to have a place in society. They were _queers,_ a word that could get them badly hurt, or even killed. Racetrack didn't want to think about Spot dying. He whimpered, small again, and curled himself into Spot's chest. He wrapped his arms around Race and held him close.

"Hey, Racer, it's okay. I'm here, I'm here."

"'S some'in' wrong, boss?" a sleepy voice called out from the bottom bunk across from them.

"Racer's worried 'bout 'Hattan. Don' worry, 's nothin'."

"M'kay."

"Yeah, go back to sleep, Myron. We's got a couple hours 'till we's hafta get up," Spot absently ran a hand through Race's hair. Myron rolled over, the mattress squeaking in protest as he did so, and Spot kissed Race's head.

"I gotcha," he whispered. Race tilted his head up, a half-smile ghosting his lips. He pressed one last kiss to Spot's lips, closed his eyes, and slipped back into sleep.

It didn't last long.

"Racer, wake up. It's time for breakfast. Racer!"

"A'right, a'right, I's just wakin' up," he grumbled, stretching. It was properly morning now, light streaming in from the windows. He sat up, still on top of Spot, and rubbed the sleep out of his eyes. The private bunk room was empty, and through the crack in the door he could see kids filing out of the other dormitory.

"Come on, Racer," Spot rolled his eyes and pushed him off the bed. He fell to the ground with an ungraceful thump, squawking in protest, and glared up at him before bursting into laughter. Spot tried and failed to hold back a smile before throwing the covers off himself.

"I 'sume ya won' wanna eat with the others?" he asked, smoothly pulling Race off the floor and into a quick hug. They broke apart quickly, Race wide-eyed at Spot's display of thoughtfulness.

"Uh, no, I don'."

"Okay. We's gotta sneak out, then," Spot smirked at him and grabbed his hand, leading Racetrack out of the private room and into the large dormitory. "There's a fire escape 'here." Down the said fire escape, out into the cold, and they were off. Spot had made sure to borrow some extra clothes, not wanting a repeat of yesterday.

The Brooklyn streets weren't bustling as usual; the crowds kept at home today to spend time with family. Snow was still falling, but in a gentle manner, and the wind had ceased altogether. Perfect weather for a winter wonderland.

"Ain't it pretty?" Race whispered to Spot, beaming. They were walking aimlessly, shoulder-to-shoulder, heading in the general direction of the Brooklyn Bridge. Racetrack looked around him, marveling at the snow, for once in his life, the peace. He felt a warm hand brush against his. Race glanced at Spot, who was staring straight ahead as though nothing was happening. Rolling his eyes, he grasped Spot's hand and entwined their fingers, trying to keep a stupid grin off his face. 

Spot leaned into Race and whispered in his ear. "You's pretty."

"Holy _shit_."

Race spun to face a slightly-startled Spot, checked for onlookers, saw none, and kissed him. Spot stumbled backwards at the sudden onslaught that was Racetrack, but pulled him in closer by the front of his shirt. They broke it off soon-after, not wanting to be caught. Race ran his hand through his hair, nearly knocking the newsies cap off his own head in the process, all the while smiling down at Spot, who smirked back. They continued onward, interweaving hands again.

"Hey, Racer, you do knows why we's 'ere, 'ight?" him and Spot had reached the Brooklyn Bridge. Race cocked his head, confused. "I's taking ya home."

Race gasped. "Walking me to my door? A true gentleman, 'uh?"

"Yup." Spot smiled. "So you's don' mind?"

"Nah. I mean, I's rather be with you but I'd also, uh, rather be home."

"That's a'right. I's need to be keeping an eye on the Brooklyn boys anyways. They'll be gettin' real suspicious real soon."

So together they walked, over the Bridge, down the streets of Manhattan, and, as promised, right to the doors of the Duane Street Lodging House. No one was around, so Spot pulled Race into one last embrace.

He kissed his neck, and whispered into Racetrack's ear, "Merry Christmas, Racer."

Race moved his head off Spot's shoulder and looked at him, a satisfied smile gracing his face. He pressed a kiss to Spot's lips.

"Merry Christmas."

**Author's Note:**

> I've tried to be as historically accurate as possible, despite even having these characters means I'm breaking all sorts of historical rules - because fun fact: Race and Spot may as well have been the same person! (I can go more in depths with y'all in the comments if you want an explanation.)
> 
> My description of 61 Poplar Street (Brooklyn Lodging House) and 9 Duane Street (Manhattan Lodging House) came from [a very informative website](http://nineduane.queenitsy.com/index.html) , where I also got my additional information (on Christmas Day and the matron etc) from. Also, I'm not entirely sure whether the newsies would've worked Christmas Day, but I'm using my authorial intent for this one anyways.
> 
> All in all, I hope y'all enjoyed it! Merry Christmas 2020! Have a good one <3


End file.
